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Irish Mag 

“Her heart was gold, 

if her eye was bold” 

The: Resurrection 
o / Skinny Rawlins 


Captain Jack 

“Game to the end, and square” 




Earl Wayland Bowman 




Caldwell. Idaho 

T3he Caxton Printers, Ltd. 
MCMXVI 























Copyright 1916 
Earl Wayland Bowman 
All Rights Reserved 



DEC 27 1316 

©CLA446947 

/ , 

V * 


To 

The best pals any “Ramblin’ Kid” can have 
A True Woman 
A Game Little Horse 


Irish Mag 

“Her heart was gold , 
if her eye was bold ” 


“She could look clean through a buckaroo 
an 9 make him lay right down —” 


Irish Mag 


D ID you ever know a galoot so low that some¬ 
one didn’t care— 

Or hit a place where the human race 
didn’t stack up part-way square? 
Now a man may sink till you would think 
the whole blamed works was bad; 
But woman stays, to the end of her days, game — 
an’ durned if I ain’t glad! 


& 




Her hair was red as a burnt sand brick an’ her eyes 
were greenish brown, 

An’ she could look clean through a buckaroo an’ 
make him lay right down; 

Her finger was quick to turn a trick or to pull a 
Colt’s an’ shoot; 

But her heart was gold if her eye was bold—an’ 
she a prostitute! 

She was on her shift in Bonanza’s place, a reg’lar 
den of sin, 

A peddlin’ booze an’ broad-horn news when th’ 
Cimmaron stage drove in; 

When Cheyenne Bill had reined them still at th’ 
door of th’ hellish dive, 

There were only two he’d brought clean through on 
th’ long an’ blisterin’ drive. 

They weren’t good fer a man to see, as th’ looks of 
both would tell— 

Page Seven 



She was just a “Breed/’ an’ she soon would need a 
ticket plumb to hell; 

An’ ’twas plain to us th’ ornery cuss she trailed 
along behind, 

Was the sort of brute you’d like to shoot—just th’ 
mangy coyote kind. 

His eyes were shifty an’ his face was bad an’ he 
didn’t need a name— 

You could someway feel he would lie an’ steal, or 
live by a woman’s shame; 

An’ th’ girl he brought would never be sought by a 
man that wasn’t drunk— 

But she was too damned good for th’ thing that 
stood beneath a low-down skunk. 

When they went inside to liquor their hide, th’ 
crowd just spread apart 

From the brothel scum an’ the thing that come—th’ 
“Breed” with a broken heart. 

Mag gave one look an’ her white hand shook, as she 
set th’ booze in place— 

’Twas plain to most she’d seen a ghost when she 
looked on his bloated face. 

With a snarlin’ oath he bought for both an’ called 
for red-eye straight— 

Th’ woman drunk, with th’ human skunk, a toast 
to her blackened fate; 

But we could easy tell th’ fires of hell were blazin’ 
in her soul, 

For a look of hate she gave her mate, when he 
pulled his greasy roll. 

An’ so they came to Chihuahua town an’ started to 
rustle trade; 

But her stock was worn an’ her beauty torn an’ 
blamed few sales she made! 


Page Eight 


An’ the dirty Chinks or booze-crazed ginks were all 
that came her way— 

He raved an’ swore ’cause she didn’t get more an’ 
beat her every day! 

Th’ months slid by an’ her sunken eye dulled with 
a look of death, 

An’ the worthless cur that lived on her kept rot-gut 
on his breath; 

While every day she would hunt her prey—then 
give him what she earned, 

An’ every night they’d quarrel an’ fight, an’ th’ 
hate she hid still burned. 

Th’ “Lazy S” had cleaned the range an’ th’ fall 
beef hunt was done, 

An’ th’ whole wild bunch had just one hunch—an’ 
that was town an’ fun. 

So we rambled in, a cravin’ sin, an’ th’ play was 
runnin’ high; 

We were blowin’ rolls an’ riskin’ souls an’ th’ 
limit was the sky! 

Old Bonanza’s joint was the common point sought 
by the rampsin’ kind; 

Th’ dance was goin’ an’ Albert showin’ he played 
like hell though blind. 

Th’ booze was streamin’ an’ eyes were gleamin’— 
some a lot too bright— 

For months th’ boys’d been holdin’ their noise to 
turn it loose that night. 

Th’ “Breed” was tryin’—though almost dyin’—to 
win a payin’ look; 

But we all were shy of her watery eye an’ none 
would grab th’ hook. 

An’ the filthy beast she worked to feast was watch- 
in’ while she tried— 

Page Nine 


At last she turned, too often spurned, an’ went to 
his drunken side. 

Th’ lights were flashin’, th’ music crashing an’ few 
there saw th’ play; 

But a sob we heard—like wounded bird—as th’ 
struck “Breed” reeled away! 

She crouched an’ pressed her hand to breast—stood 
for a second still; 

Then her blade swung high an’ we heard her cry: 
“You dog! At last! I kill!” 

As th’ “Breed’s” swift knife sought th’ coyote’s life 
Mag sprung between th’ two! 

It found her heart! We saw him start—in Mag’s 
eyes was a look brand new! 

She murmured “Jim!”—just looked at him—slipped 
from his arms an’ fell! 

Then we heard him say: “God! Good God! It's 
May! It was me sent her to hell!” 

A man should die, an’ die just once, for a friend, 
it says somewhere; 

But to die for one who black dirt’s was just left up 
to her. 

That’s what Mag did, an’ it can’t be hid, though 
she died in a house of sin, 

An’ I’m a hopin’ some in Kingdom Come we’ll find 
that she slid in! 

^ 5^ 5^ 

Her hair was red as a burnt sand brick an’ her eyes 
were greenish brown, 

An’ she could look clean through a buckaroo an’ 
make him lay right down; 

Her finger was quick to turn a trick or to pull a 
Colt’s an’ shoot; 

But her heart was gold if her eye was bold—an’ 
she a prostitute! 


Page Ten 


To he 

Resurrection 
of SKinny Rawlins 


‘He forever was a sighin’ an’ ivas lonesome 
through an’ through —” 


75he Resurrection o/ 
SKinny Rawlins 


D ID you ever get to feelin’ like you didn’t 
give a cuss— 

Just sort of get to tirin’ of life’s worry an’ 
its fuss? 

Did you ever start to thinkin’: “Well, 
there ain’t a bit of use— 

Th’ world is somehow slippin’ an’ its morals gettin’ 
loose?” 


It’s a feelin’ that comes stealin’ over us on certain 
days— 

It’s a weariness that strikes us when we’ve made 
some rotten plays; 

It’s a line of gloomy thinkin’ that is hard to get 
around, 

But a feller’s got to quit it or ’twill put him in th’ 
ground! 

There was Puncher Skinny Rawlins who was al¬ 
ways gettin’ blue, 

He forever was a sighin’ an’ was lonesome through 
an’ through— 

Though th’ grass was like a carpet an’ th’ ev’nin’ 
sky was red, 

Yet th’ pore deluded mortal kept a wishin’ he was 
dead! 

Though th’ range was wide an’ breezy an’ th’ air 
was like a wine— 

Page Thirteen 



Still Skinny kept on actin’ as if th’ sun would 
never shine; 

Like a steer that’s fed on loco an’ wanders off 
alone, 

Skinny kept appearin’ as if his heart was made of 
stone. 

When we’d rampse into Chihuahua with a volley 
an’ a yell, 

Skinny’d drag along behind us like he wasn’t feelin’ 
well; 

When he’d take a jolt of liquor that had ought to 
raise th’ dead, 

Th’ ornery cuss would splutter an’ just sort of 
shake his head! 

He just couldn’t seem to hanker for a bit of harm¬ 
less fun, 

An’ if a man was ever joyless—well, Skinny, he 
was one! 

Why, Mag she used to josh him, with her clever 
Irish wit— 

He would get so blamed despondent we would have 
to make her quit! 

Th’ boys would try to cheer him with all th’ tricks 
they knew, 

But Skinny wouldn’t jolly an’ just kept a feelin’ 
blue; 

We put sorghum in his saddle an’ cactus in his bed, 

But Skinny wouldn’t snicker—just kept wishin’ 
he was dead! 

An’ it shore is some affliction to have to ride th’ 
range 

An’ wrangle long-horn cattle with a guy that acts 
so strange! 

Sometimes you want to kill him an’ sometimes you 
want to grin, 

Page Fourteen 


But still you’d probably slay him if it wasn’t such 
a sin! 

When we rambled down to Rincon, to bury “Faro” 
Jones, 

Skinny seemed delighted just to hear th’ widow’s 
groans— 

As we we filled th’ grave with ’dobe Skinny stood 
where he could see, 

He just stood there sort of whinin’, “Oh, I wish 
that it was me!” 

Well, he kept on growin’ sadder an’ he he kept on 
gettin’ worse— 

He seemed just plumb determin’d to go ridin’ in a 
hearse; 

So one day, us boys, we figured that if nothin’ else 
would do, 

We would count pore Skinny buried ’till he finished 
bein’ blue. 

Then we sent right down to Vegas an’ bought a 
corpse’s box— 

We dug an excavation an’ filled th’ coffin full of 
rocks; 

We kept it hid from Skinny ’till th’ arrangements 
all were made, 

Then we sprung it kind of sudden when our plans 
were fully laid. 

We paraded to th’ graveyard an’ took Skinny right 
along— 

Him not knowin’ who th’ corpse was or that any¬ 
thing was wrong; 

He just seemed to be contented to know that death 
was there. 

An’ why or who it was we buried he didn’t ’pear 
to care! 

Page Fifteen 


Then th’ boys begun a snufflin’ an’ actin’ mighty 
sad— 

They shorely were pretendin’ they were feelin’ 
awful bad; 

“Pore 01’ Skinny had to leave us,” Charley Saun¬ 
ders up an’ said, 

“I was shocked an’ plumb astonished when I heard 
that he was dead!” 


“Yes, pore Skinny has departed,” while we wept 
an’ clawed our eyes, 

“An’ by now he is prob’ly herdin’ with the angels 
in th’ skies!” 

“It’s just what he always wanted,” murmur’d Par¬ 
ker sort of low, 

“Still ’twas startlin’ an’ surprisin’ how th’ pore 
cuss had to go!” 


“Well, he’s restin’ ” Charley whispered, “an’ he’s 
planted clean an’ nice, 

An’ I shorely am a hopin’ that he ain’t a needin’ 
ice!” 

So we kept right on a mournin’ as if Skinny wasn’t 
near, 

An’ we scribbled on a head-board: “Skinny’s corpse 
is lyin’ here!” 


Pore Old Skinny stood there list’nin’, hardly knowin’ 
what to think— 

Stood there watchin’ all us mourners ’till we didn’t 
dare to wink; 

Then he spoke up sort of husky, while his face 
got awful red: 

“What th’ hell are you-all doin’? Do you think it’s 
me that’s dead?” 

Then we looked up kind of startled an’ let out a 
screechin’ yell— 


Page Sixteen 


“Yeow! Skinny’s resurrected sudden—he has 
busted out o’ hell! 

Skinny’s dead an’ doesn’t know it an’ is rampsin’ 
’round some more!” 

An’ we beat it for our horses while th’ “corpse” 
just stood an’ swore! 

Well, we headed for Bonanza’s, all a laughin’ fit 
to kill— 

Just a thinkin’ of Pore Skinny cussin’ out there on 
th’ hill. 

We’d just had one round of liquor an’ were havin’ 
lots of fun, 

When Skinny batted in a snortin’ an’ wavin’ his 
old gun! 

He was shore somewhat excited an’ was strictly on 
th’ fight, 

An’ the durn fool started shoo tin’ without ever 
takin’ sight! 

He was laughin’ like a devil that is tickled quite 
a lot— 

As we went out through th’ windows—not want¬ 
in’ to be shot! 

“So I’m dead an’ nicely planted? Well, just watch 
my forty-four! 

You can’t bury Skinny Rawlins without him a get- 
tin' sore !” 

He was shorely plumb distracted an’ was seein’ 
mighty red, 

He was simply actin’ scand’lous for a guy that’s 
figured dead! 

Well, Mag she got him calmer, when he’d caved 
around awhile, 

Then us boys come back again—but it was Skinny 
wore th’ smile! 

Page Seventeen 


Since then he’s always grinnin’, but he says he 
laughed th’ most, 

When he “Saw a bunch of punchers just a fleein’ 
from a ghost!” 

But at that I am contendin’ th’ ornery, grinnin’ 
cuss. 

Would still have been a mopin’ if it hadn’t been 
for us; 

For it took a healthy funeral to bring Old Skinny 
through— 

An’ we had to go an’ plant him ’fore he’d quit his 
bein’ blue! 


Page Eighteen 


Captain JacK 

“Game to the end , and square ” 


“Nothin’ but genuine horse wrapped up in¬ 
side of his glistenin’ hide —” 


Captain JacK 


T HIS ain’t no story of a thoroughbred— 

A prancin’ around in a tan-bark ring, 
With ribbons decoratin’ his shapely head. 
While ’lectric lights glimmer on ever’- 
thing— 

No indeedy! This ain’t no story of a “horse show 
hero,” 

Nor Kentucky king of a turf-fringed track; 

It’s just about a little old bronch I used to know— 
A little old bronch called “Captain Jack.” 


^ % tig tig 


W HEN I think of that little old horse my eyes 
get dim— 

Let’s see! It’s mighty nigh thirty years 
since I rode him 

Th’ first time that he ever was rode. 

How old was he? Well, nobody knowed! 

But he’d been bossin’ his string of wild brood mares 
A full half dozen years an’ dodgin’ the snares 
Th’ punchers had been layin’ to get his head in 
ropin’ throw— 

An’ it seemed like th’ game little devil would al¬ 
ways know 

When a human animal, his natural enemy, was any¬ 
ways near, 

An’ he’d lead his bunch in th’ get-away—they was 
all as fleet as deer! 

He was such a general an’ worked so slick 
Page Twenty-one 



To keep his herd of outlaws free from every trick 
To box-canyon them, or ride them down by swift 
relays, 

That th’ boys all knowed him an’ ’count of his wise 
old ways, 

’Fore he ever had felt a man on his back, 

They’d up an’ christened him “Old Captain Jack.” 


B ERT LILLY, Charley Saunders an’ me got him 
to goin’ 

One day, up on th’ East Mesa, without ever 
knowin’ 

At th’ time that some of Old Man Lilly’s mares 
were with Old Jack, 

An’ one of them fillies happened to be a handsome 
black 

That was raised on the ranch—gentle, was a kind 
of pet— 

If she hadn’t been there I guess he’d have been a 
wild horse yet! 

All of our mounts were good an’ fresh, nifty an’ 
keen, 

An’ th’ minute Bert an’ Charley an’ me all seen 
Th’ tame young mare was with th’ outlaw’s bunch, 
We just had a sort of three-cornered hunch 
That if once we could get over th’ mesa’s rim, 
Into th’ canyon, th’ Alley—she was full of vim— 
Might head for th’ ranch an’ we could cut them 
into th’ wing corral. 

We got them down all right and sure enough th’ 
scheme worked swell— 

Th’ mare, runnin’ a streak, swung up th’ canyon 
toward th’ ranch! 

Th’ stallion stopped, for just a breath, where th’ 
trails both branch, 

Then like a flash he was fannin’ th’ wind after th’ 
coal black mare— 


Page Tiventy-two 


Straight into th’ corral ! So that’s the way we got 
Old Jack there; 

An’ that just shows he wasn’t much different from 
a lot of men— 

For he followed a female critter into a dum tight 
pen! 


C APTAIN JACK wasn’t no great shakes for 
beauty nor stylish grace— 

Just a strawberry roan with two stockin’ feet 
an’ blaze-streaked face, 

A dead black tail an’ a mane to match, an’ lots of 
devil in his flashin’ eye, 

An’ he wasn’t so overly big, ’bout fourteen an’ 
maybe a half hands high— 

But he was every inch horse, from his ear clean 
to the ground, 

An’ his wind an’ limb were smooth, an’ his nerve 
was strong an’ sound. 

You betcher life! There was nothin’ but genuine 
horse wrapped up inside of his glistenin’hide! 
An’ as he batted ’round th’ wing corral, Bert ’lowed 
he’d “Shore be lightnin’ to hackamore, sad¬ 
dle an’ ride!” 

Well, Charley he figured that he didn’t want him— 
nor neither did Bert— 

“That he was too blamed ornery an’ mean to be 
worth more’n a worn-out quirt!” 

But someway I felt sorry for th’ game little cuss, 
Smashin’ ’round inside th’ corral, makin’ such a 
fuss 

To get outside an’ again be free to run on the big 
broad range— 

An’ I reckon that was nothin’ so queer nor pow¬ 
erful strange, 

For I myself was a homeless runt an’ called by the 
bunch “Th’ Ramblin’ Kid”— 

So, a feelin’ that way I announced if they didn’t 

Page Twenty-three 


want him I shore did! 

Just then Old Man Lilly come ridin’ up an’ he was 
tickled to death ’cause we had got 
Th’ renegade stallion corralled at least—th’ cow¬ 
men wanted th’ outlaws shot. 

Th’ wicked old brute whipped out his gun an’ 
started to pull a drop on Old Jack’s head— 
That made me crazy an’ I yelled, as I drawed on 
him: “Shoot that horse an’ I’ll kill you dead!” 


W ELL, me workin’ at th’ time for the brash 
old man, 

’Course that trick meant I’d lose my job 
an’ have to fan, 

But I didn’t care nor give two whoops, for th’ range 
was broad an’ the world was big— 

Anyway I wasn’t th’ kind of kid to back-trail nor 
ever renig; 

Besides I was plumb red mad from sombrerro top 
to spur—from outside hide to inside core— 
For I never could see a horse brute ’bused by no 
durned man without gettin’ devilish sore! 
Then a batty an’ fool thing happened—something 
naturally you’d hardly believe— 

I just slid offen my mount, stripped th’ saddle an’ 
hackamore gear an’ with one big heave 
Throwed th’ whole outfit, blanket, bridle an’ all, 
over th’ bars an’ into th’ wing corral, 

Then climed up an’ dropped down inside, on foot, 
with just my rope an’ faced that bronch that 
was wild as hell! 

For maybe a second Old Jack stopped, surprised— 
th’ boys outside just held their breath— 
Thinkin’ I’d shore went clean loco an’ was flirtin’ 
with certain an’ pronto death. 

Then here he come! His mouth wide open! Ears 
laid back! Eyes like coals! Strikin’ feet— 
an’ lowered head! 


Page Twenty-four 


I side stepped! Th’ rope went true! A quick run 
to th’ snubbin’ post—a single half-hitch—I’d 
throwed him dead! 

Like a flash he hit his feet! Whirled! Give a 
maddened squeal an’ come straight back! 

I run with th’ rope, side windin’ once more—yank¬ 
in’ my best to get th’ slack! 

That time when he went down—well, what’s th’ 
difference? I won—was safe on deck when 
they let us outside, 

An’ ’fore we stopped at th’ “Hundred an’ One,” 
Captain Jack an’ me had made a ninety mile 
ride! 

Then I knowed I’d found, at last, th’ one true an’ 
game little hoss— 

An’ Jack knowed th’ Kid he carried was his friend 
as well as his boss! 


C APTAIN JACK an’ me worked th’ whole 

blamed range from th’ Raton Hills to 
No-Man’s Land; 

We rampsed around from th’ Purgatory 
clean down to th’ mean old Rio Grande 
An' them shore were life’s most joyous an’ happy 
years, 

But now they’re gone—th’ Little Old Horse—th’ 
virgin plains—th’ broad-horn steers— 

‘Long with th’ smell an’ moan of th’ herd—th’ night 
watch calm ’neath starry skies— 

(Shucks! This fool smoke keeps tormentin’ my 

dim old eyes!) 


Vi % % 


Jack an’ me were punchin’—straight—with th’ Cir¬ 
cle Bar an’ Lazy S— 

Trailin’ a bunch of restless Texans—’bout six 
thousand head I guess, 

Page Twenty-five 


From down on th’ Lower Pecos, ’long th’ line to th’ 
Upper Cimmaron. 

Th’ herd was down for th’ night. Dave an’ me 
were on th’ grave-yard watch, alone. 

When Parker, th’ night boss, shook me out to take 
my turn I hadn’t intended to ride Old Jack- 

Aimin’ to rest him an’ take a sorrel that was in 
my string, but he whinneyed an’ I turned 
back 

An’ took him—’cause, somehow—well, I was lone¬ 
some, I reckon, an’ anyway I had a kind of 
hunch 

To take him, for there was an uneasy feel to th’ 
air an’ a tenseness out there among th’ 
bunch 

Of wild Texas brutes that made me want to be 
shore of th’ horse I rode— 

An’ do you know that someway, I’ve always felt 
like Jack himself knowed 

I was goin’ to need just him that night more than 
ever before in all th’ years 

We’d been ramblin’ ’round together—(It’s that 
durned smoke botherin’—them ain’t tears!) 

An’ I believe, too, th’ game Old Boy had a notion 
we were startin’ to make our last hard ride— 

So I took him! An’ Old Jack did his best—to save 
my life that Little Old Bronch gave his—an’ 
died! 


W E had swung around the herd just once. 

They were bedded down in a sort 
of horse-shoe shape; 

Had passed Dave—was back in th’ bend of th’ band. 

A thundercap hung a shadow, like crape, 
Over th’ crest of Old Eagle Tail. Out to th’ east 
there was a sickly glare 

From th’ risin’ moon. There was a kind of dead, 
sullen hush to th’ midnight air— 

Page Twenty-six 


A sort of silent threat. Then from th’ west there 
came a rumble an’ one bright streamin’ flash, 

Like a cloud of death them Texans were up—an’ 
gone! Straight to th’ south in their insane 
dash! 

An’ Jack an’ me were caught! Caught fast! No 
chance but to run! To run—run like a 
hound from hell! 

To run with th’ fear crazed brutes—in that sea of 
horns—an’ God help us both if Old Jack fell! 

A pair of shots from my forty-four showed Dave i 
was pinched tight in th’ heart of th’ wild 
stampede— 

He didn’t dare to try millin’ th’ herd with me in 
there—all he could do was follow at his 
bronch’s best speed! 

I just leaned over on Old Jack’s neck an’ talked to 
him soft an’ low: 

“Game Old Horse! Good Old Pal! They can’t 
get us! Run Old Sport! Now! Get down 
an’ go!” 

They were crowdin’ us—crowdin’ us hard; Th’ roar 
of th’ tramplin’ feet was like th’ thunder of 
a storm-mad sea! 

Th’ lightnin’ was blazin’ over there to th’ west— 
th’ press was fierce—but Jack was runnin’ 
strong an’ free! 

Then a big wild brute just ahead stumbled—hit a 
badger hole—Old Jack tried to clear th’ 
horns— 

Th’ imp of hell throwed up his head! One keen 
point drove deep into Old Jack’s breast— 
they were sharp as thorns! 

Th’ tough little devil just barely flinched from th’ 
deadly crash, 

An’ I leaned lower, slipped my hand under his neck, 
an’ felt th’ gash— 

Then I knowed my Pal was done to death for th’ 
blood was spurtin’ in a steady stream; 

Page Twenty-seven 


But th’ game Old Sport never cheeked a bit—just 
lunged right on with still more steam! 


W ELL, when I felt that ragged wound an’ Old 
Jack’s blood gushin’ out so fast an’ hot, 

I just went locoed crazy an’ wished every 
long-horn steer in th’ world was shot! 
Then started pumpin’ my forty-four—every time 
th’ old gun popped, 

One of them snortin’ murderin’ broad-horns just 
crumbled up an’ dropped! 

I knowed they were bound to get Old Jack an’ me, 
But ’fore they did I just wanted to see 
How many of th’ devils I could kill— 

An’ I shot quick an’ straight an’ with a wicked will! 
So I emptied my gun an’ emptied my belt—when 
she snapped on th’ last empty shell, 

Eighteen Lazy S steers had felt my bullets—I’d 
counted the brutes as each one fell! 


T HEN I throwed th’ gun an’ just lopped down 
on Old Jack’s neck an’ put my hand 
over that terrible hole— 

Foolishly thinkin’ I’d hold in th streamin’ blood 
that was drenchin’ with agony my boyish 
soul! 

An’ so we rode! All around th’ fear-mad steers 
struggled in a race that was run with death; 
An’ my heart was torn with a stabbin’ pain as I 
could hear th’ whistle of Old Jack’s breath! 
Straight away over th’ plain toward th’ south 
where waited th’ Arroya Grande—deep an’ 
wide an’ dark— 

Around us th’ roar of th’ rushin’ herd—th’ moon, 
up now, ghostly gray—an’ once in a while a 
spark 

From Dave’s gun as he followed, doin’ his an’ his 
broncho’s level best 


Page Twenty-eight 


To cheer me up, with th’ flash of his iron, in that 
killin’ supreme test! 

Fightin’ for breath Old Jack plunged on, me low 
on his neck, blind with rage an’ grief an’ 
sobbin’— 

“It’s all right, Old Pal! You’re holdin’ ’em down!— 
damn ’em!—damn ’em!” ( I could feel his 

body throbbin’!) 

“Game Old Jack! Good Old Pard! If they get 
you—I’m with you, Pal!”—an’ Old Jack just 
must have heard— 

Just must have heard an’ understood, even in all 
that rumble—every tremblin’ word, 

For though he was weakenin’ from loss of blood an’ 
terrible shudders shook his frame, 

An’ his wind was cornin’ in sickenin’ gasps—he’d 
pick right up when I’d whisper his name! 

On an’ on without a check! God! What a race 
for life for a Kid an’ Little Old Horse 
to run—• 

Then—Old Jack stopped! For barely a second! I 
felt him crouch—he stiffened—I thought we 
both were done!— 

My God! What a leap! Out an’ out! It seemed 
like we would never stop— 

Th’ earth just faded away—just faded away—in 
a straight down drop! 

We were free! We were free of th’ wild stam¬ 
pede! Old Jack had jumped the Arroya 
Grande! 

He had jumped that gap in the earth a twenty- 
foot bridge would have barely spanned! 

% & 

H E went to his knees — staggered a reelin’ step 
or two—tried to go on—stopped—an’ 
fell! 

That was the end of our last hard ride—I wasn’t 
Page Twenty-nine 


hurt—there ain’t much more I care to tell. 

Th’ roar grew less an’ less, th’ herd swerved east— 
up the Arroya—finally drifted away. 

Th’ boys found us there—me layin’ with my head 
on Old Jack’s neck—sobbin’—just at th’ 
break of day. 

We buried him—deep—no snarlin’ wolf should gnaw 
his bones! An’ I—well, I quit th’ range, 
but my heart’s still there— 

Where I left Little Old Captain Jack, that wasn’t 
no “horse show hero”—but was game to th ’ 
end an’ square! 




3477-163 
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